when I was a hermit, and a donkey.”
“Ay! no matter, you said things. And you had no reason.”
“Forget all I said there. Who hearkens the ravings of a maniac? for I see now that in a few months more I should have been a gibbering idiot; yet no mortal could have persuaded me away but you. Oh what an outlay of wit and goodness was yours! But it is not here I can thank and bless you as I ought. No, it is in the home you have given me, among the sheep whose shepherd you have made me; already I love them dearly; there it is I must thank 'the truest friend ever man had.' So now I say to you as erst you said to me, come to Gouda manse.”
“Humph! we will see about that.”
“Why, Margaret, think you I had ever kept the dear child so long, but that I made sure you would be back to him from day to day? Oh he curls round my very heartstrings, but what is my title to him compared to thine? Confess now, thou hast had hard thoughts of me for this.”
“Nay, nay, not I. Ah! thou art thyself again; wast ever thoughtful of others. I have half a mind to go to Gouda manse, for your saying that.”
“Come then, with half thy mind, 'tis worth the whole of other folk's.”
“Well, I dare say I will; but there is no such mighty hurry,” said she coolly (she was literally burning to go). “Tell me first how you agree with your folk.”
“Why, already my poor have taken root in my heart.”
“I thought as much.”
“And there are such good creatures among them; simple and rough, and superstitious, but wonderfully good.”
“Oh I leave you alone for seeing a grain of good among a bushel of ill.”
“Whisht! whisht! And Margaret, two of them have been ill friends for four years, and came to the manse each to get on my blind side. But give the glory to God I got on their bright side, and made them friends, and laugh at themselves for their folly.”
“But are you in very deed their vicar? answer me that.”
“Certes; have I not been to the bishop and taken the oath, and rung the church bell, and touched the altar, the missal, and the holy cup before the church-wardens? And they have handed me the parish seal; see, here it is. Nay, 'tis a real vicar inviting a true friend to Gouda manse.”
“Then my mind is at ease. Tell me oceans more.”
“Well, sweet one, nearest to me of all my parish is a poor cripple that my guardian angel and his (her name thou knowest even by this turning of thy head away) hath placed beneath my roof. Sybrandt and I are that we never were till now, brothers. 'Twould gladden thee, yet sadden thee to hear how we kissed and forgave one another. He is full of thy praises, and wholly in a pious mind; he says he is happier since his trouble than e'er he was in the days of his strength. Oh! out of my house he ne'er shall go to any place but heaven.”
“Tell me somewhat that happened thyself, poor soul! All this is good, but yet no tidings to me. Do I not know thee of old?”
“Well, let me see. At first I was much dazzled by the sun-light, and could not go abroad (owl!), but that is passed; and good Reicht Heynes—humph!”
“What of her?”
“This to thine ear only, for she is a diamond. Her voice goes through me like a knife, and all voices seem loud but thine, which is so mellow sweet. Stay, now I'll fit ye with tidings; I spake yesterday with an old man that conceits he is ill-tempered, and sweats to pass for such with others, but oh! so threadbare, and the best good heart beneath.”
“Why, 'tis a parish of angels,” said Margaret ironically.
“Then why dost thou keep out on't?” retorted Gerard. “Well, he was telling me there was no parish in Holland where the devil hath such power as at Gouda; and among his instances, says he, 'We had a hermit, the holiest in Holland; but being Gouda, the devil came for him this week, and took him, bag and baggage; not a ha'porth of him left but a goodish piece of his skin, just for all the world like a hedgehog's, and a piece o' old iron furbished up.'”
Margaret smiled.
“Ay, but,” continued Gerard, “the strange thing is, the cave has verily fallen in; and had I been so perverse as resist thee, it had assuredly buried me dead there where I had buried myself alive. Therefore in this I see the finger of Providence, condemning my late, approving my present, way of life. What sayest thou?”
“Nay, can I pierce the like mysteries? I am but a woman.”
“Somewhat more, methinks. This very tale proves thee my guardian angel, and all else avouches it, so come to Gouda manse.”
“Well, go you on, I'll follow.”
“Nay, in the cart with me.”
“Not so.”
“Why?”
“Can I tell why and wherefore, being a woman? All I know is I seem—to feel—to wish—to come alone.”
“So be it then. I leave thee the cart, being, as thou sayest, a woman, and I'll go a-foot, being a man again, with the joyful tidings of thy coming.”
When Margaret reached the manse the first thing she saw was the two Gerards together, the son performing his capriccios on the plot, and the father slouching on a chair, in his great hat, with pencil and paper, trying very patiently to sketch him.
After a warm welcome he showed her his attempts. “But in vain I strive to fix him,” said he, “for he is incarnate quick silver, Yet do but note his changes, infinite, but none ungracious; all is supple and easy; and how he melteth from one posture to another,” He added presently, “Woe to illuminators I looking on thee, sir baby, I see what awkward, lopsided, ungainly toads I and my fellows painted missals with, and called them cherubs and seraphs,” Finally he threw the paper away in despair, and Margaret conveyed it secretly into her bosom.
At night when they sat round the peat fire he bade them observe how beautiful the brass candlesticks and other glittering metals were in the glow from the hearth. Catherine's eyes sparkled at this observation, “And oh the sheets I lie in here,” said he, “often my conscience pricketh me, and saith, 'Who art thou to lie in lint like web of snow?' Dives was ne'er so flaxed as I. And to think that there are folk in the world that have all the beautiful things which I have here yet not content. Let them pass six months in a hermit's cell, seeing no face of man, then will they find how lovely and pleasant this wicked world is, and eke that men and women are God's fairest creatures. Margaret was always fair, but never to my eye so bright as now.” Margaret shook her head incredulously, Gerard continued, “My mother was ever good and kind, but I noted not her exceeding comeliness till now.”
“Nor I neither,” said Catherine; “a score years ago I might pass in a crowd, but not now.”
Gerard declared to her that each age had its beauty. “See this mild grey eye,” said he, “that hath looked motherly love upon so many of us, all that love hath left its shadow, and that shadow is a beauty which defieth Time. See this delicate lip, these pure white teeth. See this well-shaped brow, where comliness Just passeth into reverence. Art beautiful in my eyes, mother dear.”
“And
